


Love, Ire and Song

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Radio, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Gen, hipster AU, radio station
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 22:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11046060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: Working on a political radio station when you've not thought about politics since you were 15, entirely by choice I might add, hardly seems a good vocational choice.But then neither does taking on the 1-4am slot when you have work from 9 the next morning so one of the options had to be the more sensible.And so Grantaire, for the sake of Feuilly's health and sanity finds himself filling in on the ABC radio, despite not having a political bone in his body.He has been reliably informed that he has an excellent taste in music however, so he's part of the way there.





	Love, Ire and Song

“Good evening folks! Or should that be good morning? It’s 2am here on ABC radio and all over the UK and you’re here with me, Grantaire. That’s a new name I hear you say, a new and complicated name. So, if that’s too much for your 2am self to handle feel free to call me R. Now that was Paul Simons ‘You can call me Al.’”   
“But R, you say, over the last bars, this doesn’t tell us who you are and what you’re doing here on ABC radio? Well seeing as you ask I’ll tell you. I just so happen to be the friend of your friends Feuilly and Bahorel, and I also have a chronic inability to sleep before about 4am, and, seeing as I run my own business I don’t have to be up before 12 so here I am. There is only one issue, I’m about as political as a potato, but it’s 2am, none of you care about that stuff at this time. Well, I wouldn’t. If you do give me a call and I’m sure I can rustle something up. Well, that’s the introductions over so let’s get on with the show! I’ve got a host of old classics to take you through till 4 or so, whether you’re ending your day or just starting it.”  
Grantaire sits back in his seat with a stretch as he starts up the next track, rather enjoying the power he has to play whatever he fancies. He’s sure he probably should have had a track list ready, but he’s had the song stuck in his head all day so he’s taking liberties.   
Besides, Feuilly said it was next to impossible to find anyone to fill the late slot, so he doubts he’ll get fired. There’s probably no-one listening in anyway.   
He’ll freely admit working on a political radio show is hardly his thing, he hasn’t been involved in politics since school, in fact he tries to actively avoid it. But Feuilly works the earlier shift in the shop, and he used to cover the post-midnight slot, which had led to lots of napping during his shift, Bahorel installing a bell and quite frankly terrifying dark circles. So when he’d eventually been persuaded to take on a different slot Grantaire had volunteered to take over – ‘but only if I’m not forced to talk politics.’   
He sets to work sketching out a new tattoo design for one of his regulars while he waits for the song to end – at least he can be productive and listen to music without his neighbours complaining – but he’s only just flicked the page open when the phone next to him rings.   
Obviously someone is listening, he thinks as he tries to calm his heart down a little.   
“Hello, hello! R speaking, how can I help you fellow late-nighter? How about we start with a name.”   
“Hello, R… I’m Luc.” The man on the phone sounds confused, tired even, as if they’re not used to spending so much time awake.   
“And what brings you to our airwaves?”   
“I’ve been a long time listener. I heard ABC were taking on someone new so I thought I might call in to welcome you aboard.”   
“Oh now you didn’t need to do that, 2am is far too late for courtesy calls.”   
“Well, I was interested.” Luc sounds slightly put out. Grantaire grins, leaning back in his chair.  
“Oh, I see. You’re checking up on me.” He teases.   
“I- I wasn’t.” The man sputters.   
“Relax would you, I’m teasing. It’s nice to have the company. While you’re here do you have a song request?”  
“U2, Sunday Bloody Sunday.” Luc says after a pause.  
“Coming right up.” Grantaire finds it, turning off his mic.   
“You know I’m not actually checking up on you right?”  
“Of course I do, but you’re also not a night owl by the sounds of your yawning. I must really intrigue you.”   
“In as much as you’re new.”  
“Ouch.”   
“I didn’t mean that like- I just wanted to see what you were like. And if you’d keep the same tone as the rest.”   
“Oh… Oh dear, you’ve not come hoping for politics have you?”  
“On a political radio show, surely not.” Luc’s voice drips in sarcasm and Grantaire has the overwhelming desire to know exactly what his expression looked like at that moment because that’s nearly Bahorel levels of sarcasm.   
“I’m just here to help Feuilly get some sleep, but if you can provide me with some interesting topics maybe you might draw me in.” Grantaire returns to his sketchbook, beginning to sketch out a stork, wings outstretched, neck reaching as if toward a hidden fish.  
“I thought you were the one presenting.”   
“I can’t have all the fun.” Luc snorts.   
“Goodnight R.” 

“Hello, Hello! It’s somewhere around 3am and you’re listening to ABC Radio. This morning you’re with me, Grantaire, because my insomnia knows no bounds and won’t let me sleep until the sun’s up anyway. Seeing as I’m absolutely crap at politics no matter how much my boyfriend tries, and, let’s be honest, if you’re tuning in at this time you’re not so worried about that, we’re skipping over the ABC’s usual shtick. So settle in fellow insomniacs, and those night shift workers, or whatever other reason brings you to these radio waves, we’re in for a couple more hours of rocking tunes interspersed with some of my brilliantly witty commentary and who knows, maybe I’ll fit some late night news in there if you’re lucky. First up for our 3 o’clock session we have Suzanne Vega with Luka.”

“How was your first night on the job?” Feuilly asks as he swings into the back room at lunchtime. His colleague is scanning an image, hopefully for the woman currently trying to persuade Bahorel to dye the ends of his hair – again. She’s a regular, a hair dresser by trade and apparently right now ‘mermaids’ are all the rage, from the brief snippet he caught as he passed through.   
“It wasn’t half bad, I even had a caller.”   
“After 2? I never had any.” Feuilly folds his arms. Grantaire grins cheekily, shrugging off his jacket.   
“I’m pretty sure it was a regular checking in on me, don’t get too jealous. What’s the design?”  
“We’re adding to her space sleeve.” He gestures to the sketch, Virgo in fine dots beneath an outline of her constellation. “I think she’s putting off getting her elbow done.”   
“I don’t blame her. I’ve still only got the one done.”   
“Don’t remind me, I will do the other in your sleep one day.” His unfinished sleeve, classically themed with sweeping clouds and gods, is a bone of contention with his friend. His elbow, reserved for Atlas with his globe, remains stubbornly bare along with the back of his forearm.   
“You’d never be awake when I finally went to sleep.” Grantaire grins, digging through the fridge for something to eat.   
“That’s not something to be proud of.” Feuilly reminds him, then shakes his head as he sees what Grantaire’s discovered in his fridge hunt. “Please tell me that’s not your breakfast.”   
“Says Mr ‘I once had frappuccinos for breakfast for over two weeks’.” Feuilly’s mouth opens, closes again and then twists into a pouty frown. “You know I’m right.”  
“The difference is I learn from my mistakes.”   
“Hey, mine has veggies in, it’s balanced!”   
“You tell yourself that. I, meanwhile, have to get back to my client.” Feuilly waves the stencil at him as he vanishes through the door. Grantaire settles on one of the chairs to eat his find cold, flicking through a home magazine that Bahorel was reading yesterday. There’s only so much staring at pastel yellows and greys and ‘the next big thing’ headlines that you can manage however, and he quickly tires of an article on peonies, throwing the container in the bin and the fork in the vague direction of the sink.   
“You’re on call for walk ins remember.” Feuilly tells him, without even looking up, as he passes through the shop. How he knows exactly what Grantaire’s plans are he’ll never know, but he spins on his heel and continues walking backwards.   
“Then send Bahorel out on a recce, I’m only gonna be at Jehan’s.” Feuilly raises an eyebrow. “He won’t complain about the chance to visit.”   
Feuilly sighs, wiping his needle and his client relaxes just a little, her feet lowering just a tad.   
“Tell them they still need to get that flower coloured would you?”   
“Roger. Because your pedantic-ism will never let you leave something unfinished.” Feuilly doesn’t even comment, spinning back on his chair. Grantaire grins cheekily, waving as he sidles out of the door.   
Jehan’s their next door neighbour, though they’ve been here longer than their tattoo parlour, in fact when Grantaire was thinking of opening his own place they’d been the one who found the retail space, as well as worming in with the landlord to tell him just how good their friend was at being a tenant.   
Maybe not all true, but he pays rent on time so it’s not all bad.  
The florist is a contrast to their own shop, narrow and painted in a shade of pale teal, giving a sense of whimsy to the otherwise unassuming window. Grantaire helped with the signs, and to their credit Jehan boosts the attraction of the shop with a tier of plant pots on the pavement.   
The bell above the door jingles as he walks in, and god knows how Jehan can put up with that every day. Jehan glances up, realises who it is, and returns to their work.   
“Do I not even deserve a reaction?”  
“You come round every day.” Jehan points out, trimming the stem of a gerbera and tucking it into an extraordinary orange and purple bouquet. “Come in sporting a flamingo hat and I might pay more attention.” Grantaire grins cheekily and Jehan raises an eyebrow over their work. “Don’t tell me you have a stupid animal hat.”  
“No, alas. But I’ll bear it in mind for next time. Are you not going to ask me how last night went?”  
“I know how it went, you’ll have played your wonderfully bizarre collection of music and talked complete bollocks for two-“  
“Three.”  
“Three hours. It was made for you.” They grin.   
“And I had a caller.”   
“My oh my, did you get a booty call?” Their green eyes have a wicked glint that tells him they’re smirking, one eyebrow quirked.   
“Hardly, I think the guy was checking I wasn’t ruining the reputation of his favourite show. Not the start of the most sexy of calls.”  
“Shame,” they sigh, with more melodrama than strictly needed. “You really could do with a good lay.”   
“I’m so glad it shows.” Grantaire replies dryly, but he knows Jehan is teasing. To be honest he’s not that bothered by his current lack of love life, sexual or otherwise. He’s always been a bit of a misnomer, being able to count the amount of times he’s actually been attracted to someone on one hand, and the amount of times that’s been actable dwindles further still. He’s always much preferred the intimacy of sexual contact to the act itself, putting him in stark contrast with his old friend.   
Jehan tucks a strand of mousey hair behind their ear.   
“Leading me to a proposition. I happen to have some rather excellent weed that’s just begging to be shared. I was thinking you, me, a bowl or two, you can finally design Bahorel’s new piece. I can write…”   
“Radio, remember.”  
“I can be quiet.” They tease.  
“Newbie gets high and stinks the place out on second night doesn’t really rank highly on the employee of the month list does it?” Jehan twists their lips in an exaggerated disappointed pout, looking more than a little like a five year old. “You can tour another night.”   
“I’d better. And you’d better go before you get Feuilly on your back. He’s more the boss than you.”   
“He’s actually cut out for it, I’m entirely unsure how I got on before he showed up. He wants you to go back with that flower though.”  
“I’m waiting on him getting good at watercolours.” Jehan says, rustling around to gather a few flowers together. “So if he hurries up with that…”   
“I’ll tell him.”” Jehan holds out a bouquet of red blooms. “Another?”  
“The ones on your counter look sad. And Bahorel will love them anyway.”   
“Why not deliver them yourself?”   
“I’m busy, and you’re a good little messenger boy. So run along.” They shoo him.  
“You didn’t give me a message.” Grantaire points out cheekily.   
“Then ask if he’s interested in being sociable tonight.” They grin, with a knowing look. 

The flowers go down well, and are now sitting pride of place on their reception counter, being lovingly rearranged by Bahorel. To look at him, a rugby guy, short shaved down the side, styled beard, tattoos swirling up his arms, you wouldn’t think flower arranging would be his thing.   
Grantaire’s pretty sure he’d defect to Jehan’s if he could.  
He’s also pretty damn sure they’re screwing each other, but that’s neither here nor there.   
He turns his attention back to the stork he’s etching on his customer’s shoulder. He thinks the guy might be regretting such a complex, coloured in design, but he grits his teeth and keeps quiet.   
The tattoo parlour was his ever so slightly drunken idea, about three years ago in some fancy too expensive bar with Bahorel. He’d been working in a little place since university, perfectly lovely but he was low on the ladder, still getting mostly simple designs – wings, words, lines. It was great, but frustrating when he knew he could actually design better things, and he only got the chance when Bahorel came in for something new.   
So he snapped, proposed an idea to the fresh out of uni Bahorel – he studied law, not that he wanted to actually do it, so the idea of a distraction seemed perfect. A shop was found, loans taken out, gradually they decorated with rubbish found in charity shops and donations from Jehan. Feuilly came along after a year, when Grantaire was secure enough to actually think about hiring someone. He’d walked in, presented his designs and by the end of the day he was hired and Bahorel had a new tattoo.   
The Three Aces – renamed by Bahorel about 6 months ago in a fit of rebranding mania – is an eclectic place. Red walls, a couple of old chesterfield style sofas, more photo frames than the really have room for littering the walls, bearing old designs. Business is steady, it has off days but so does any business, the most important thing is that they keep afloat.   
His beanie is suddenly lifted from his head, pulling his curls with it before they’re unceremoniously dumped over his eyes.   
“Oi!” He whips around to find Feuilly adjusting the hat over his loosened ponytail.   
“I’m off.”   
“With my hat?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow. Feuilly shrugs in return, hitching his bag back onto this shoulder.  
“It’s chilly outside.”   
“It’ll be chillier when I leave!” Grantaire protests.   
“You live closer.” Feuilly counters. “And the radio station is warmer than my flat. Bigger too.” He adds with a chuckle.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been so long, I'm so sorry. I've just finished my final year at uni so things got a bit manic post-Christmas. But I'm on holiday now so hopefully I'll have more time for writing!   
> In the mean time, enjoy this new series - there are Instagram 'accounts' for the characters here - http://chatteringbluemagpie.tumblr.com/post/145648974036/love-ire-song-the-tattoo-shop-grantaire


End file.
